Luck of the Draw
by Scrappy7082
Summary: AU. Two-shot. "For the most part, Duncan considered himself a lucky guy. But, man, did he hate his job." DxC.
1. Chapter 1

For the most part, Duncan considered himself a lucky guy.

He was attractive, first of all. His piercing eyes and ripped physique meant he had no shortage of admirers, wanted and not. He had witnessed girls of all ages, shapes, and sizes try desperately to catch his eye over the years—and, hey! He wasn't picky, and the player status only added to his bad boy reputation. Not that he slept with every last one, of course, but a little flirting here and there never hurt. Some coy words, a sly wink, maybe a kiss. Already more than enough to make them swoon.

In truth, comparatively few girls (he could count them on one hand) had actually caught his interest long enough to make it to his bed. Duncan wasn't some commodity, available to anyone at any time. He was exclusive, elect, in limited supply.

He loved that.

His good fortune also came in the fact that his family was reasonably well-off. Having cops for parents (and aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings) was obviously less than favorable for an amateur criminal like himself, but it provided an income that allowed him a comfortable middle-class lifestyle. He never had to wonder if there would be food in the fridge or clean clothes in his closet, and that alone made him luckier than half the teenagers he knew.

He could be more academic, Duncan supposed, but he preferred to attribute his low performance throughout high school to a lack of effort rather than intelligence. He had hardly shown up the last two years and hadn't read a book since seventh grade; how _could_ his grades accurately reflect his mental capacity? Common sense was more useful anyway, and he had that in stacks.

How often he decided to put that sensibility to good use was another matter.

With all this plus his natural athleticism, loyal friends, and winning personality, there were very few things Duncan could find wrong with his life.

But _man_, did he hate his job.

He had been a senior in high school, just turned eighteen, when he applied for the bartending position at the local club. At the time, he thought it would be pretty cool—hot girls, loud music, dancing, _alcohol_ –and he was hoping to save up some money to get his own place, away from the suspicious eyes of his father. The manager had been hesitant to take him on, what with his record and being barely above drinking age, but after seeing him with the clientele once he was practically begging Duncan to work weekends. He just had that inherent charm and quick wit that drew people to him, and the proportion of return patrons skyrocketed within his first two months. In turn, so did his wages.

Duncan enjoyed it initially, he really did. The charged atmosphere, generous tips, sultry looks, hell, even the pointed glares gave him a kind of thrill he rarely experienced beyond those doors. Within a few weeks, he learned to recognize a dozen different beer brands by sight, mix an inordinate number of fruity cocktails, and break up a bar brawl without so much as a scratch. In his bedroom, he had a drawer of paper slips covered with names and nearly illegible phone numbers he had no plans to call. Most were from young women in their early to mid-twenties, but a few came from other individuals, including several much older women and a few men who he'd been too taken aback to tell he wasn't interested.

By the eighth month, however, the novelty of the club began to wear off. The music they played was increasingly irritating, and the people doubly so. It was as if someone had sought out the most vapid, giggly, touchy-feely girls in all of Canada and sent them right his way, along with a good amount of middle-aged businessmen and unhappy husbands. This combination was made worse by the fact that whenever Duncan stopped one of those idiots from taking advantage of a vulnerable girl, she took it to signify a romantic interest, rather than a simple act of goodwill. Even an hour spent convincing them otherwise couldn't deter the majority from coming back the next week.

If he didn't need the money, Duncan would have quit the instant girls started running their fingers along his tattoos and grabbing his biceps. The suffering was only temporary, he had to remind himself, just until he had enough to move into that apartment with DJ. He was so close; only another four or so months and he'd be set. He just had to push through until—

"Hey, can I get a Tequila Sunset?"

Duncan peered over his shoulder at the striking blonde leaning heavily on the counter and set down the wine glass he'd been cleaning. "Sure, babe, coming right up." He recognized this girl as one of their new regulars, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five years old. While she was less annoying than many who passed through and not at all bad-looking, he had to roll his eyes at her choice in liquor. _So fruity_.

It was around eight o'clock on Friday night, and as Duncan expected it was already getting busy. There were couples on the dance floor, parties lounging in booths, and singles making small talk by the bar. As he finished off the girl's order with an umbrella and slid it across, he looked to his left where, sure enough, Trent was chatting up a pair of young ladies. Their faces were flushed, but Duncan couldn't tell if it was due to the attention or the wine coursing through their systems.

He let out a quiet snort. Trent glanced over and grinned.

As far as coworkers went, Trent was pretty chill. He was just as good with customers as Duncan himself, only with far more patience, which was why Duncan liked to hand off his more exasperating charges to him. Though Trent lacked that dangerous edge, his relaxed, hipster-esque vibe still worked miracles at attracting girls.

Personally, Duncan thought it was the hair.

* * *

Duncan was concocting his tenth drink of the night when a high-pitched squeal nearly made him drop the expensive cocktail shaker he held. Resisting the urge to cover his ears, he shifted his gaze in the direction of the obnoxious sound.

_Of course_. Matching outfits, black pigtails, gimmicky hairpins—the twins. The skinny one was the squealer, judging by the dirty looks she was getting. She didn't appear to notice, too busy chattering away to her chubby friend who nodded along sympathetically, eyes wide. Cursing, Duncan ducked his head and pretended to rummage for more whiskey when he realized they were approaching his side of the bar. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck listening to their jabbering for the rest of the night.

After five minutes of arranging and rearranging the bottles under the counter, Duncan felt relatively certain he was in the clear. He stood up, glanced around, and was about to let out a relieved sigh when he felt a sharp tap on his right shoulder.

He wanted to run and hide. Instead, he steeled his nerves and turned in a slow circle, pasting on an apologetic smile and reciting the spiel he had delivered to countless women in the past year. "Look, ladies, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not in the market for a re—"

The word died in his throat.

For a moment, Duncan just stared, unsure if he was imagining things. He was moments from pinching himself to check when a pair of fingers snapped in front of his nose.

"Uh, hello? Duncan?" The hand pulled back and left him with a full view of the girl before him. Her brow was knitted above her dark eyes, tanned arms crossed over her chest. "Are you okay?" The question was one of concern, but her tone sounded almost accusing.

Duncan blinked. "Um." He was having a hard time remembering how to speak; only the changing of the song broke him out of his daze. "Oh, um, yeah. Thanks. I just wasn't expecting…" She cocked an eyebrow. "I was expecting someone else."

She snorted in such an unladylike manner that he worried his hearing was failing. "You mean the pink girls?" she asked dryly, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "Don't worry. They're a little occupied."

Duncan followed the gesture to find said girls gawking over some male model who had just entered the building. A smirk crept onto Duncan's face as the bigger one promptly fainted.

"Well. That's good to know." Typically, he disliked having competition in the looks department. That said, if it meant less of those two, he was all for it. He was so amused watching the one twin try to revive the other that he nearly forgot he had a customer.

"Ahem."

Nearly.

"Oh, sorry, Princess." Recovered from his earlier funk, Duncan made a show of bowing to the young woman, forehead brushing the counter, before he leaned his elbow on the table and brought his face all too close to hers. "What can I get for your royal highness?"

What Duncan really wanted to know was what she was doing there. He hadn't seen her in almost six months, since graduation, but even so he knew as well as anyone that this wasn't her scene. Dressed in a tight white V-neck and a red skirt that hardly reached mid-thigh, she looked uncomfortable at best, and he was surprised to note light makeup around her eyes and a glossy sheen to her lips. It was a far cry from her usual collared shirts and sweater vests. He let his gaze dip to take in her whole form.

The change was much appreciated.

Courtney took a deliberate step back and hardened her glare to distract from the redness creeping into her cheeks. "One Bud Light, please. And not for me," she hurriedly clarified. "For a…friend."

Duncan locked eyes with her momentarily, then shrugged and spun to pour the drink without another word. He couldn't help but think that beer was more of a man's drink, and pretended his heart didn't sink at the thought.

Her fingertips brushed his knuckles as she went to take the glass, but Duncan suddenly didn't want her to leave. Keeping one hand wrapped around the side of the cup, he placed his other atop hers and adopted his most charming tone. "You sure I can't get you anything? I find it hard to believe a first-year law student doesn't drink whatsoever."

Courtney pursed her lips and looked at him doubtfully. "Unless it's water and in a sealed plastic bottle, I'm not taking anything from you." The corners of her lips flickered at his offended expression. "I'm going back to my table now. Thanks." And, tearing the glass from his grip, she stalked away.

Trent leaned over from his station to give Duncan a sympathetic pat on the back. Of course, he'd been listening. "Ooh, tough luck, man. Though I'm kinda impressed," the guitarist admitted, gesturing to the girl's retreating form. "I didn't think any girl could leave you speechless."

Under normal circumstances, Duncan would have taken the comment as an insult. But he was too busy watching a certain pair of hips sway under a bright red skirt.

"Yeah, well. You gotta love her."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hey, just decided to split this in two... I think it makes more sense that way :/**

**Thanks for reading!**

**\- Scraps**


	2. Chapter 2

Duncan couldn't focus. Not on the customers, their names, faces, orders. Thankfully, most were either too drunk or too dense to perceive his distraction. While they rambled on and toppled from their seats, their attractive, aloof bartender was fixated on the little table in the corner of the room, just as he had been for the last half hour.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end as he watched the asshole try once again to hold Courtney's hand (without success) and scoot his chair an inappropriately small distance from hers. If she had seemed uneasy earlier, she was downright disturbed now, lips in a tight line, fingers fidgeting in her lap. When the guy threw his head back in a laugh, she barely managed a weak chuckle. Her gaze shifted over to the crowd, to the bar, to Duncan. Their eyes met.

He was no expert at reading expressions, but he felt relatively certain hers was a plea for help.

Not missing a beat, Duncan hopped the low barrier between himself and the sea of stumbling club-goers. He vaguely registered some surprised murmurs and an exclamation of "Hey, Duncan?" from Trent, but it was just background noise to him, like the music and the shouting and the pounding feet. Now well past 10:00 p.m., the crowd was thick and unyielding, and Duncan quickly lost sight of his target. He let out a frustrated huff and began shoving his shoulder into people until he found a path through the chaos.

When he came out the other side and Courtney was nowhere to be seen, he couldn't breathe.

Duncan swallowed hard. What was he getting so worked up for? It had been literally minutes since he had last laid eyes on the girl, and there were over a hundred people around. Nothing _bad_ could happen in so little time, with so many witnesses.

Besides, Duncan had no claim over her; they hadn't spoken in half a year, and it wasn't like they had ever dated.

Somehow, the tightness in his chest only grew.

Soon realizing that his peculiar anxiety could not be ignored, Duncan took a moment to survey his surroundings. The now half-empty beer glass stood on the table, droplets of condensation streaking its sides, as did a leather wallet and a pair of high-end, black-framed sunglasses. The guy was an even bigger poser than Duncan had given him credit for.

_And dumber_, Duncan decided as he snatched up both items and settled them in his pockets. He wouldn't be caught dead wearing those shades, but he supposed he could make a few bucks off them. The wallet was a freebie.

Leaning against the table, he feigned checking his phone, looking up every now and then to search the crowd. Eight minutes passed. No Courtney. Duncan was a mere fifteen seconds away from heading back to his station when he caught a flash of shiny brown locks to his right. He shot upright faster than he would ever admit.

It wasn't her. Too tall, too pale, too unrefined. Apart from the hair, the girl hardly resembled Courtney at all. Nevertheless, Duncan was grateful for the almost-sighting—it reminded him just how strange he was acting.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he meandered back toward his station behind the bar, preparing for an interrogation from Trent and several annoyed clients. He was lucky that his boss was out of town this weekend for a family emergency, or else he would have certainly paid for his brashness in his next paycheck. His hands gripped the counter's edge as he prepared to jump back over.

"Duncan?"

His head snapped to the side with so much force that his neck cracked. For the second time that night, he found himself lost for words as he stared at the very person he'd been seeking for the past quarter hour. He was confused to see the heat he felt in his cheeks mirrored in her own.

Why should she be embarrassed? He was the one not-so-secretly tracking her.

"Oh, uh, hey, Court," he choked out. A giddiness rose within him as he realized, perhaps a bit late, that she was alone. He fought to sound indifferent. "Where's the boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend. Just a…friend." The irritation in her voice was clear, but Duncan thought he heard something else. Disgust? Desperation? She made a vague gesture towards the hardwood. "He's over there, somewhere."

A slight frown took over Duncan's features as he looked between Courtney and the place she had indicated. Then he grinned widely.

"You came looking for me." It wasn't a question. He spoke over her denials. "I'm flattered, Princess, but I have a lot of fans already. I can't play favorites by giving some customers more _attention_ than others." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. He conveniently left out that he had just wasted a good amount of time doing exactly that.

The blush on Courtney's cheeks was unmistakable now. "I did _not_ come looking for you. I came over here because…" She paused a bit too long. "Because I wanted a drink."

It might have been a plausible excuse if it came from anyone other than Courtney. Duncan didn't mind though; he liked making her squirm. "Is that so?" He waited for her confident nod. "Then why didn't you just ask Trent over there?"

To Duncan's horror, Courtney appeared to ponder the offer before she flashed him a smirk of her own. "Maybe I will."

Duncan swore the swing of her hips as she sauntered away was no accident.

Trent was amused by Courtney's request. He obviously remembered her from earlier in the evening, and Duncan was making no attempt to hide his scowl. Trent didn't know whether the target was himself or the girl, but ultimately concluded Duncan was probably aiming at them both.

So, the musician smiled warmly and ignored him, grabbing a clean glass and filling it two-thirds of the way with bubbly champagne.

Trent knew that Duncan was a good guy deep down, but sometimes he felt he needed to learn that he couldn't get everything he wanted at the snap of his fingers. Duncan's interest in this girl was painfully obvious, and Trent thought the reason behind it was clear enough. She was beautiful. Smart. She wasn't giggly or flirtatious or coy, and she didn't flaunt her body like most of the girls they dealt with. She had confidence, morals, a backbone; she wouldn't give in to anyone unless she wanted to, Duncan included.

Trent sensed there was some other history between the two that he was unaware of, but that only made the whole thing more significant to him. Duncan had known this girl for a while, years maybe, and she still had yet to succumb to his charms. Now that was impressive.

What was less impressive was Courtney's capacity for alcohol. She was only on her third glass of champagne and she was already beyond tipsy.

"See, what I don't understand," she slurred slightly, tossing one arm outwards in indignation and nearly knocking someone in the jaw, "is why these idiots wear such expensive clothes to a club like this. Not to be rude or anything, but," she shrugged, "it's not exactly a high-class place. And most of them are gonna end up on the floor by midnight anyway."

Trent laughed genuinely. He agreed with her, but at the same time was glad that her neighbors were too smashed to catch the insult in her rant. "Yeah, you're kinda right. This place can be a dump sometimes."

She titlted her head to give him an honest, inquisitive look. "If it's so bad, then why do you work here?"

Trent shrugged. "The pay is decent. The hours aren't terrible. I would say there are lots of cute girls, but most are more of a pain than anything." He quickly backtracked. "Not you, of course."

She brushed him off. "I know, you weren't talking about me." She still seemed mad though, and Trent didn't understand until he heard a snippet of her muttering. "Bet Duncan loves that part."

Somewhat surprised, Trent let out a quiet chuckle. He had assumed the infatuation was one-sided, but the barely concealed jealousy in her tone told him otherwise. Deciding to push his luck a bit, he told her, "Yeah, Duncan's pretty popular with the ladies around here. I mean, I've got a few fans myself, but he makes me look like an amateur."

Trent was exaggerating somewhat. While Duncan was arguably the most asked-after employee, Trent felt he attracted more than his fair share of the female population. And it wasn't like Duncan really enjoyed most of the attention he got.

Courtney's reaction made the fib more than worth it. Her jaw tensed, eyes narrowing and purposely avoiding the left section of the room, where the young man in question glanced over at them impatiently every ten seconds. She downed her champagne and slammed it down on the counter harshly. The glass cracked up the side, but she paid it no mind.

"Well, I guess some people don't care about the important things, like personality and values and being a _good_ _person_. No, it doesn't matter that he steals and skips school and defaces private property. They'd rather trade all that for a pair of pretty eyes and good abs and, and…" She broke off, apparently too overwhelmed with her own indignation to carry on. "I'm gonna go give him a piece of my mind."

As she stormed off, Trent shot Duncan a smirk and a thumbs up.

* * *

Duncan had no idea what Trent had said or done to rile Courtney up so much, but by the time she reached him she was positively fuming. Her dark eyes blazed like he had never seen before, her finger digging into his sternum as she gave him a lecture that rivaled his father.

It was one of the hottest things Duncan had ever witnessed.

"—acting like a freaking dog! Do you know how degrading that is? This is the twenty-first century, for god's sake! Why don't you take that chauvinistic attitude and shove it up your ass, you piece of— Mmph!"

He couldn't help himself. Grasping her bare arms, Duncan lunged over the bartop and forced his mouth onto hers, effectively shutting her up. He felt her eyelashes brush his cheekbones as her lids fluttered and, for an instant, the pressure of her lips as she kissed him back.

Then, apparently coming to her senses, Courtney pulled away as if burned. She was flushed, again, and Duncan absently hoped it was from his kiss and not the three drinks he'd seen her consume.

She stared. He couldn't tell if she was pleased or shocked or enraged (or a combination of all three), but when the tip of her tongue darted out to trace her swollen lips, he had an overwhelming urge to kiss her again, to feel her arms around his neck, taste the inside of her mouth, breathe in the scent of her shampoo.

A tan hand reached up to his hair. Her fingers ran through the shorter strands softly, combing from the back forward, nails lightly raking his scalp. Duncan was bemused, but the sensation was so enjoyable that he found himself leaning into her touch, nearly purring with delight.

Until Courtney grabbed a large tuft and pulled, hard.

"_Ouch_! Son of a—" Duncan tried to look up, but her strong grip forced his head down until all he could see was black stone.

"That was my first kiss, asshole!" She spoke in a whisper-shout. She was pissed, yes, but he sensed another emotion—excitement, he realized with a start. "Were you even listening to me? I'm not some floozy you can do whatever with. Try that again and I'll rip something else off." With one last tug, she released him and turned sharply on her heel. Duncan lifted his head just in time to catch her heading out the entrance.

"Love you, too, babe!" he called out. He didn't know if Courtney heard him or not; she didn't glance back, though the devastated stares of girls nearby told him he'd said it plenty loud enough. Duncan fingered the wallet in his pocket thoughtfully before running after her into the night.

It's not like he needed their money now anyway.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hey everyone! I know I said I was done (and I am) but I wanted to write one last story before it's official. :(**

**If you liked it, please feel free to favorite and/or review!**

**\- Scraps**


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